


On Dodging Mister Armitage

by Nehszriah



Series: unnamed satsouffle au [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode AU: s08e12 Death in Heaven, Prompt Fic, accidental date, but it is accidental sex all the same, but that day was clearly not today, not so much drunk sex as buzzed sex, one of these days I'll write Julius as anything other than plot fodder, sam plays matchmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24301234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: Sam plays matchmaker using a number she finds in her boss’s mobile and it goes almost a little too well...[Malcolm/Clara AU that ran away from the tumblr prompt]
Relationships: Clara Oswin Oswald/Malcolm Tucker, Sam Cassidy & Malcolm Tucker
Series: unnamed satsouffle au [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/355574
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	On Dodging Mister Armitage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [malcolmtuckersthrobbingtemple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malcolmtuckersthrobbingtemple/gifts).



> I stumbled across malcolmtuckersthrobbingtemple's fic prompt over on tumblr involving Clara saving all the orange gummy bears for Malcolm because she knows he likes him best... and then this happened. Consider this a follow-up to my fics Citrus with a Hint of Tea and Because You Bested Me; if not then just know this is a DW s8 bad ending where Twelve and Clara didn't reconnect during Christmas and early TTOI takes place at roughly the same time... somehow...

At the current juncture of things, all Sam really wanted to do was figure out how to find a way for her boss to get a shag in every once in a while. Get him someone to shag with, let out a bit of frustration, and maybe even… dunno… have a bit of a domestic release now and then. Decompression. Yeah. That’s what it was called. Even under other names, it certainly wasn’t anything he was getting while he was in the office reaming out someone from Export Finance who happened to accidentally find their way into Number 10. She glanced at the clock on the wall—it was past lunchtime for anyone reasonable, though decided to take a chance. Taking out her mobile, she pulled up a previously-uncontacted number and composed a text.

“ _Hello Clara, it’s Malcolm’s PA, Sam Cassidy_ ,” she wrote, “ _I was wondering if you wanted to conspire a bit with me_.” She placed her mobile face-up on her desk and then continued to scroll through Malcolm’s emails, seeing which ones she needed to point his attention towards and which she could simply handle on her own. It was a couple minutes before her mobile buzzed—Clara.

“ _Did Malcolm give you my number?_ ”

“ _My apologies—I took your number from his mobile while it was charging two days ago. I haven’t seen him talk about someone like he does you and thought your number might be nifty to have, at least on my personal mobile. He doesn’t know I have it and none of this is on-record._ ”

“ _He talks about me?_ ”

“ _Not much, but enough to give me an idea. You’re something else if you caught Malcolm Tucker’s attention in a way that doesn’t make him cuss or refer to you as a twat or bint, Miss Oswald_.”

“Sam…?! Get this shit out of here! He’s stinking up the place!”

Rolling her eyes, she placed her mobile face-down on the desk and went into Malcolm’s office. There, standing in complete and utter terror, was the lad from Export Finance, wondering what was going to happen next. She waved him over to the door and he came, allowing Malcolm some time to peel a satsuma in peace.

“You alright?” she asked. The lad nodded. “Hopefully that will teach you to not go mouthing off before you know who’s in the room. Here, take some chocolate…” She plucked a small morsel of candy from a dish on her desk and placed it in his hand before easing him towards the door. “Now make sure your boss knows _everything_ that Mister Tucker said regarding his policy, alright…?”

“…alright…”

Soon as the visitor was gone, Sam went back to her mobile, where there was a message waiting for her from Clara.

“ _He does still owe me that dinner_ …”

“… _which was three weeks ago. He told me to remind him, but each time I do, he faffs on it until something distracts him. I haven’t seen a boy so nervous over asking his crush out since secondary school_.”

“ _I can imagine_.” A short pause. “ _What’s the plan?_ ”

If this didn’t send sparks flying, then nothing would.

* * *

Three days later and Malcolm was off-site, roaring threats into his mobiles as he went off to bollock some morons into a stupor, starting with the inept lumps of genetic byproduct that was DoSaC. After twenty minutes had passed, Sam was instructing the door guard to allow her visitor in, bringing a rather uncomfortable Clara into Number 10 and handing her a set of guest credentials.

“Are we allowed to do this?” she asked as Sam led her through the corridors.

“If I’m correct about how the afternoon is going to pan out—and I usually am barring any surprise emergency—then Malcolm is going to be followed back to the office by a MP who he really would rather just leave alone, but the MP himself is a bit too chummy. You will be the perfect excuse to leave.”

“…but doing this won’t put me on any sort of government watch list, will it? I don’t want to jeopardize my career for a prank.”

“That’s what you’re nervous about?” Sam wondered. Clara nodded. “Don’t worry—plenty more careers are on the line too if you end up being a terrorist or anything of the like, so you can rest assured that we wouldn’t let you in if someone thought you needed to be watched.”

“That’s… reassuring… I guess…”

Soon they came upon Malcolm’s office, where the two ladies had some tea as they killed time before Malcolm’s return. Much of the room was—far as Clara could tell—older than her gran, despite the fact there were modernities such as a coffee pod machine in the corner and a computer on the desk that appeared to be from within the calendar year. She took mental notes in case she ever needed to return, only disrupted by a text coming through to Sam’s mobile.

“He’s almost here,” she said. “My guess is we have three minutes before he comes in here with a straggler he rather wouldn’t have and you get to save the day.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Get ready.” Sam gave Clara a wink and went out into her part of the office, leaving Clara alone in possibly what was one of the most sensitive offices in the entire United Kingdom. She sat down on the arm of a chair and waited, staring directly at the door.

Only two minutes passed and Clara could hear Malcolm’s muffled voice on the other side of the door. She made it appear as though she was idly examining a nail when the door opened, the usual occupant of the office freezing at the sight of her. His mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide in panic—a string of curses were very clearly going through his head. The straggler—a bald, huffy-looking man in glasses and a suit—was right on his heels, noticing her much later. By then Malcolm had collected his jaw from the floor and was beginning to formulate a plan.

“…and who might you be?” the other man asked.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

* * *

“You know how important it is for us top people to stay in the know, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah; anything that is going to involve you, I’ll make certain you catch wind of.” Malcolm tried not to roll his eyes as Julius Nicholson walked with him down the corridor. His crispy-voiced baldness had caught him in the PM’s office and was being particularly tough to shake today. He wasn’t particularly a fan of the lord—too much privilege and not enough sense to utilize it properly—and he was trying to block him out more than usual.

“I don’t want just _wind_ , Tucker. I would like warning in regards to the whole storm.”

“You’ll know.” He passed into Sam’s anteoffice, with Nicholson still tailing him. “Sammy? Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

“Your five o’clock is here,” she said cheerily. Malcolm gave her a momentary look of confusion, making sure to wipe it clean before Nicholson saw.

“I thought you were free all this afternoon and evening,” Nicholson said. He followed Malcolm into the office proper, blinking in confusion when he saw Clara. “…and who might you be?”

“Not here for you,” she replied sweetly before turning back to her quarry. “Malcolm, dear, you promised me dinner three weeks ago.”

“Well, erm, yeah… yeah I did.” He blushed in embarrassment. Fuck… his brain was beginning to short out. Of all the potential things and people he could have met in his office at short-notice, Miss Clara Oswald was far from what he expected.

“Then let’s go; Sam has your appointments.”

“I didn’t know you were married,” Nicholson marveled. “Our Sweary Scot has his surprises.” Clara knew it was time to go—the longer they stayed, the more incriminating things would become, and _incriminating_ was one thing she definitely did not want attached to her.

“Please excuse us, Mister…?”

“Julius Nicholson, Lord Armitage.” He made to take her hand, presumably to kiss it cheekily, but she latched onto Malcolm’s arm instead.

“Please excuse us, Mister Armitage—I did make reservations and we mustn't be late… _again_. Right, dear?”

“Yeah, fuck—we wouldn’t be allowed in again.” Malcolm went for the stand where his coat from the morning chill sat. “Fuck you later, Jules.”

“Remember, Malcolm: warn about the storm.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Malcolm helped Clara back into her coat as well and let her hook her arm in his as they made their way out the door. They kept the contact as they waited for a taxi, only breaking into giggles once they gave directions and the car turned the corner.

“ ** _Mister Armitage?!_** ” Malcolm smirked, trying to keep his voice down. “I don’t think I’ve seen his face look like that since he was kicked off a bunch of planning committees for fraternizing with the French ambassador!”

“Is there anything wrong with the French ambassador…?” Clara half-laughed in confusion.

“Not a thing—it was just an excuse as any for what amounted to a fucking prank.” He then raised an eyebrow. “Wait… did you really make reservations somewhere?”

“I just gave an address close to my flat—figured we could start from there, have a meal in and maybe something off the DVD shelf.”

“I still owe you a nice dinner _out_ —I _did_ promise you that.”

“Another night; with the way _Mister Armitage_ looked, I think what we need is something with little pretense.”

Unable to disagree and not wanting to say much more in front of the cabbie, Malcolm nodded and let the taxi drive them over towards Clara’s flat, with them getting out at a store nearby. He followed her in, hands jammed in his trouser pockets and scowling only slightly.

“So… what do you like?” Clara asked, grabbing a cart. Malcolm shrugged noncommittally.

“Depends. I didn’t think you’d be a Spam and tinned beans lass, so chances are we can find a middle ground.”

“Yeah… I try to stay away from Python sketches when it comes to my dinner-dates,” she smirked.

“That implies that you have it at all.”

“Odd comfort food from when Mum was still around, nothing more.” She picked up some chicken and placed it in the basket. “How about some chicken and rice? We can have asparagus or broccoli with it.”

“I’ll go find some,” he said. Malcolm then disappeared from Clara’s side, allowing her to wander throughout the store. She was taking some milk from the dairy cooler when he reappeared, dumping an armful of things in the basket. “I think we’re done, unless you need something else.”

Clara peered into the basket. “Broccoli, rice, and three bags of Gold Bears?”

“You know, the essentials.” He shrugged, trying to play it off as though he wasn’t sneaking candy in the basket like a child. “I wish they sold packages of just the orange ones in stores sometimes, you know? Best fucking flavor, but it’s more difficult to get if that’s all the fuck you want.”

“You’re just a big kid,” she couldn’t help but giggle. He pouted at that.

“Hey, kids don’t buy groceries or bollock senior ministers in the Cabinet,” he groused. He took the cart from her and began to walk towards the front of the store near the checkout. Clara chuckled to herself before one of the workers she was familiar with caught her eye. The older woman made eye contact with her, pointing back and forth between Clara and Malcolm. Clara shrugged openly, a smirk on her lips, which only made the shop worker nod in approval and give a thumbs-up.

Another woman from another shop _clearly_ wanted her together with someone… for fuck’s sake.

By the time Clara found Malcolm again he was lowly arguing with the self-checkout machine, attempting to do the very simple thing of weighing the broccoli yet not being allowed to do so. She took over the checkout process, noting how quick he was to pay and take the bag for her, carrying the paper bundle in one arm as they made the short, increasingly familiar, walk to her flat block. He wordlessly followed her in and obeyed the silent order to wait in the stairwell when dodging neighbors. Once the corridor was clear they tried to not rush as they entered her flat, both exhaling heavily as they closed the door behind them.

“That was close,” Clara groaned. “I don’t want to explain anyone right now, no offense.”

“None taken.” He took off his shoes and coat and carried the groceries through the flat, taking note of his new surroundings. It was cluttered in the tiny space, with knick-knacks and mementos and books—so many books—all throughout all the rooms he could see. It was a flat with personality—something that he knew his too-spacious-for-one house didn’t have by far. Going into the kitchen, he saw that it was similar: rather cluttered, but nothing that he would ever consider disgusting or messy. It was clear that she did plenty of marking during meals, as evidenced by the spread of essays around an empty teapot and mug. “So… this is your place?”

“Yeah—sorry I’ve not tidied in a bit—wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

“I’m not one to fucking judge,” he claimed. He waited until Clara straightened up a corner of the table before setting the bag down. “Pretty sure I lived in hazmat situations before.”

“In uni, right?”

“No… before I finally broke down and hired a maid service. I’ve been too fucking busy to tidy things since I moved to London and let’s just say the eventual backlog wasn’t pretty. It’s actually good to see a normal flat for once.” After depositing his suit jacket on the back of a chair, he began to unpack the bag, squeezing everything onto the small bit of table still left. “I’ll cook if you get me what I need.”

“I’ll cook; it’s my flat.”

“…and without you, I’d likely be eating takeaway in a conference room while Mister Armitage attempts to seductively eat an onion bajji as if it was not the most unnerving fucking thing on the face of the entire planet. There’s plenty of others I’d rather have try to seduce me, and some of them I might even enjoy, but he’s just a bit much, reading way too fucking much into what amounts as just a joke to get through the cuntastic days we have to wade through.”

“Well then maybe that should teach you not to jokingly flirt on the job,” she teased, handing him a pan from the cupboard.

“Force of habit—you don’t know how things need to get done in my line of work.”

“I think I have an idea.” Malcolm’s mobile began ringing and he looked at it, then at her. “Not unless that’s the Prime Minister; anyone else and it goes in its favorite hiding spot again.” He simply held out the mobile, still ringing, and allowed Clara to take it. Voicemail took over as she was placing it in her bra, keeping the device secure. “After dinner, yeah?”

“Sounds fair.” He stared at the mobile for a brief moment before turning his attention back to where the stove was. “You got a steamer pot around here somewhere?”

Before long, Malcolm was cooking in the wee kitchen while Clara busied herself by going and tidying up her flat in the most haphazard way possible. By the time food was done and on plates, she had the kitchen table cleaned off, as well as the cushions and spare blankets sorted in the sitting room to make the couch seem nearly comfortable and not like an extra, makeshift bed born of laziness and depression.

“That’s a lot of wine,” he noted as she poured a couple of large glasses for them. Then again, the bottle she was pouring from was rather large as well. “Don’t tell me you normally put all that away.”

“Oh, this? No—it’s just cheaper this way. Decent wine on a teacher’s budget means bigger bottles.” She felt her face grow hot with blush as she defended her spending habits—not that she needed to defend them. “It usually takes me… two weeks? Yeah, two to finish off one of these… and that’s if I had some every day.”

“Relax; I wasn’t accusing,” he shrugged. He took a sip from his glass and his eyebrows arched in surprise. “Not bad—fucking pity the lads at work don’t know about this shit, or we might be able to justify a Westminster wage cut because they’re not spending as much on getting fucking shitfaced.”

“I didn’t think we were here to get shitfaced,” she replied around her food. Fuck, it was **_delicious_**. “Wine while eating helps break down the shit-faced-ness.”

“Yeah, I know how wine works.” He winked at her and held up his glass in a toast. “To finally having someone to down this with.”

“For once,” she laughed.

Dinner was good—really good—and two oversized glasses of wine each later, the dishes were all in the dishwasher and Clara was dragging Malcolm towards the couch to watch a movie. It _was_ a bit of a stronger wine, she reasoned, and after a movie and maybe some popcorn and a cuppa, then he could go out. Let the alcohol work its way through, _then_ stumble to the pavement, well after most of her neighbors had gone to sleep. He couldn’t deny the logic in that and plopped himself on the couch, letting the house rules dictate what they’d watch. In went a comedy—fairly middle-ground—and they settled in for what was hopefully a sobering night in.

As the movie progressed, Clara began shifting in her seat, finding that she wasn’t quite comfortable. She tried to move into a position that kept her completely on the one side of the couch but quickly found that it was going to be difficult. A couple tries and Malcolm lifted his arm, allowing it to rest along the back of the couch, giving her a sliver more room.

“Better?” he asked.

“…yeah…” she nodded quietly. “Thanks. I forgot how small the couch is with two people on it.”

A smile teased the corner of his mouth. “Can you humor me for a moment?”

“Doing what…?”

“Just say that again, please. Not often I hear it so honestly.”

“What…? _I forgot_?”

“No, before that.”

…oh.

“Thank you, Malcolm,” she purred, leaning in close to him. She gazed up into his eyes, seeing that they were only slightly unfocused as he looked at her, as though he was drinking her all in like they did the wine. “Thank you, truly, for not attempting to bollock me into submission, as it would mean we would have never made it to you being on my couch, in my flat, and oddly in my life.” She shifted again, this time popping up on her knees so as to lock eyes evenly with him. His eyes sharpened and the air seemed to spark—tension gripped them as everything else faded away and there was nothing left but them.

Unable to stand it, Clara grabbed Malcolm’s face and pulled him in closer, jamming her tongue in his mouth as she kissed him. He made a noise in reply as he kissed back, attempting to edge himself into what was quickly becoming a battle for dominance. His back hit the armrest and he realized she was winning—a bloody turn-on if he ever fucking met one. It was her turn to make a noise as his hips bucked and he pressed his quickly-hardening cock against her thigh; the couch was not going to last long at this rate.

Wordlessly, Clara climbed off of Malcolm and dragged him off the couch with a sense of urgency only found—one might figure—in the middle of either danger or heat. Soon as he saw her bed, he lifted her into his arms and resumed kissing, instead pressing her into the wall as he began to kiss and bite down her jaw and neck. Her skirt rode up and he could feel how wet she was between her legs, soaked through knickers, leggings, _and_ his shirt. As he gnawed at the crook of her neck and she worked at untucking his shirt, he found her clit through her clothes and circled over it with his thumb.

“Fuck,” she moaned. “Are you always this big a prat?”

“Only when I have to be, darling.”

Malcolm eased Clara back down to the floor and began to quickly undress himself. His shirt was off and his belt loosened when he saw his mobile, sitting cheekily inside her bra as she opened her blouse. He nearly tackled her as he pushed her onto the unmade bed, the feeling of skin from her torso against his driving him nearly mad.

“Leave it,” he requested into her hair. “Let’s fucking shag with the reason we’re here sitting where it belongs.”

“No—I don’t have enough uncooked rice for if it drowns,” she said, taking it from her bra anyhow. She placed it in his hand and he put it on a nightstand, at least keeping it nearby in case of an emergency. Using the distraction, she wriggled out from under him and went into the drawer of her other nightstand, rummaging around until she pulled out a wrapped condom, tossing it at his face. “Suit up or stroke yourself off elsewhere—your choice.”

If it was a test then he passed. He used his teeth to tear open the wrapper as his other hand shoved his trousers and pants off. She shed her blouse and bra, stopping as she watched him pull the condom on. Once she was sure it was in place she peeled off her lower layers and climbed back into bed, meeting him in the center. She was very quick to push him onto his back once again, eagerness emanating from his wandering hands and the moans still half-stuck in his throat. Feeling him writhe beneath her as she mounted and rode him was beyond measure, with him fighting the urge to melt into a pliable mess that grew with each thrust. He gasped and swore loudly as he came quickly, and then, realizing that she had not as well, caught her off-guard in order to toss her back against the bedding and make swift work of his hands and adorning her with kisses.

It definitely, they both thought as they hazily fell asleep, was not the worst feeling in the world.

* * *

A light turned on somewhere and Malcolm groaned, trying to close his eyes tighter to fight off the headache he was developing. He was warm and comfortable otherwise, his pillow doing its duty as he curled around it, until it did something his pillow never normally did.

Its insides gurgled.

Bolting awake, Malcolm scooted away from the pillow and his stomach dropped as he realized what was going on. It wasn’t a pillow he had been wrapped around moments before, but it was Clara Oswald, now sitting up naked in the bed as she covered her torso with the blankets, she too waking up in a panic. Fuck… he was also naked and… fucking fuck fuck fuck…

“Not a dream,” he said, voice cracking slightly. She shook her head in response.

“Now I guess I know it was a good thing that I never threw out the condoms,” she replied, blinking heavily as she attempted to wake up quicker. He glanced down and saw that he was not wearing one, which made him grow even paler. “You took it off to pee—it’s how you got that bump on your head. I thought it was a dream too… until now…”

Slightly panicked, Malcolm looked at himself in the vanity to see the damage. Yes, there was a bump on the edge of his forehead, right next to his temple. Not very noticeable, but it was enough to sting and could probably be blamed on a loose cupboard door. There were other things that were much more noticeable, however, on the rest of his body: wee bite marks and bruises and scratches that he couldn’t remember being there before. A sobering realization slapped him across the face and, while not necessarily bringing him to his senses, set a couple things into quick perspective.

“I guess that really was a lot of wine,” he mused aloud. He saw Clara in the mirror as she hugged her knees, keeping the blankets covering her so as to easily bury her face in them. “What…?”

“I did this…” she muttered into her blankets. “Shit… I did this…”

“We both did,” he stated severely. He turned back towards her and sat down on the edge of the bed, right next to where she sat. Now that his vision was not blurred by sleep or altered by shock, he could see that she had her own set of bites along her shoulders, arms, and neck, including a large hickey that he hoped she had enough foundation to cover. “Don’t shoulder it all if there’s blame to share.”

“I got us drunk and we _slept together_ and now anything that we were possibly building up to is ruined,” she said. She raised her head and he saw that her eyes were red and wide and glassy—fully woken up now and two seconds away from bursting into sobs. “What have I done?”

“It’s not _just_ you…”

“Yes! It’s me! It’s always me!” she snapped back. Tears began to stream down her face, the first trickling before the dams broke. “I was the one who my boyfriend was talking to on the phone when he died in traffic; I put my best friend through Hell before pushing him away permanently while grieving in the aftermath; I was the one who instead of letting us go out like you originally planned, brought you to my flat and got us both drunk with wine glasses more suited to someone’s embittered elderly aunt.” She locked eyes with him and that was it—she couldn’t help but cry. “I’m a bloody train wreck.”

“…Clara…”

“You don’t owe me a dinner out anymore,” she sniffled.

“… _Clara_ …”

“I mean it.”

“… ** _Clara_** …”

“You should just g—”

“ _No, **Clara**_ , can we talk with me in the blankets too? I’m fucking freezing.”

“Oh… uh… yeah…” Her tears stunned to silence, she watched as he walked back around her bed, sliding in on the other side and burrowing his way back in, covering himself all the way to his shoulders. “Um…?”

“I already don’t have any fucking pants on, and if we’re going to talk about this, then I’m at least going to be warm.” He laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. “What time did the clock say again?”

She looked. “It’s early—ten after four.”

“…then I have fifty minutes before I have to be out the door and headed towards work to get there at a roughly normal time. We should be able to talk for, what, thirty of that?”

“You should shower though—clean yourself up.”

“Okay, then ten minutes. Tell me in ten minutes why you think it should be all your fucking fault when I was just as fucking randy judging by that big ol’ mark on your neck.”

“Not just on my neck,” she admitted. Clara hesitated, glancing down at the man next to her—with his naturally-cross brows and pale eyes, there was an odd sort of… cuteness? Yeah, there was an odd sort of cuteness to him cocooned in the bedding thanks to a lack of clothes. “You’re Director of Communications for the Prime Minister, yeah?”

“Yeah…?”

“…which means you take care of things, yeah?”

“You’ve got me so far…”

“It’s just…” She exhaled heavily, trying to loosen the tension in her body. “You should know what it’s like, then, to be the one who needs to care. About this trip or that parent night or these people we ran into… I was the carer regarding it all for so long that, once I wasn’t anymore…” She trailed off as she let herself lean back against the headboard and stretch her legs out; fuck, Malcolm saw that he’d attacked her tits in their stupor as well.

“I don’t think _carer_ is a word.”

“It’s perfectly cromluent,” she chuckled. His brows furrowed even more at that, which drew a smile from her. “I’m used to it, because it’s always been me, so I should have been more on-guard.”

“…then what’s **_my_** fucking excuse?” he scoffed. “I’m used to mopping up after everyone that I might as well trade in my Blackberry for a brush some days. That was too much decent wine to be negated by dinner, yeah, and neither was it that watery piss that pub called beer. We both fucked up, sweetheart; I think we’re both adult enough to share blame.”

“Then… what do we do from here?”

The question sat between them for a while, filling the air as the song of early-morning birds began to whisper their way in, signaling the impending morning. Malcolm propped himself up on an elbow, glancing up at the woman whose bed he was still rather comfortable in.

“I’d say forget it,” he told Clara, “but at the same time, I feel like even attempting to forget that would be tantamount to committing treason on my cock. We used a condom, right?”

“Yeah…”

“So I’m not particularly worried—I have to monitor two television interviews today and you have to give an exam, both of which are things we’re much more right in being concerned over.” He took her much-smaller hand in his and looked at her fingers, examining them as something to do. “Maybe one day we work our way to shagging properly.”

“You’re taking this incredibly well…”

“Yeah, well, like I said: if I wasn’t getting pissed enough to get my brains shagged out here, I would have been eating takeaway at work with subpar company, my only form of release being maybe a quick dirty thought and an even quicker wank in the bog. I woke up with _you_ , not a coworker or a reporter.”

“How is that any better?”

“…because what the fuck are you going to do after riding my cock? Bully me into spinning a policy to death? Force me to aid a political enemy into career suicide? Threaten negative-only coverage for an entire quarter if a set of exclusive interviews aren’t granted?” He got out of bed and hissed at the chill in the air as he gathered up his discarded clothes. “You not only play on my level, but there’s nothing you want out of me… not any of the shit I’m used to being chased after regarding.”

“What if I did?” she posed. He shrugged.

“That’s a chance I’m going to have to take now, isn’t it?”

Leaving the bedroom, Malcolm found the bathroom and quickly began to get ready for the day. He saw the discarded condom from earlier in the wastebin while taking a piss—definitely nothing to worry about—and discovered that yes, Clara did own a neutral-smelling bar of soap sitting on a dish. He also saw a body wash that was citrus-scented and a shampoo to match. Despite thinking better of it, he took a glob of the shampoo and washed his hair with the stuff; if he was going straight to work from here, the least he could do was have a reminder lingering after him. He exited the shower refreshed and confident, despite the fact he knew he’d have to shave at work. It was a much better feeling than he’d had in a long while standing in a bathroom that wasn’t in own, and he wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

Thankfully, the steam from the shower took out most of the wrinkles of his trousers and shirt—was still going to need to get into the spare suit at work—and he was able to exit the bathroom looking somewhat human. He poked around the flat to find Clara in the kitchen, head in the fridge as she tried to figure out what to eat.

“Thanks,” he said, catching her attention. He stood in the doorway and looked at her, now dressed in an oversized t-shirt and baggy shorts. “I’m glad it wasn’t a dream.”

“I am too,” she replied. “I think we both needed it.” She then motioned to the open fridge. “Breakfast?”

“No—I better get going. I don’t know what traffic’ll be like and I’ll be fucked if I’m behind because of breakfast.” His face grew hot in blush as he shifted on the balls of his feet. “Maybe if there’s a next time.”

“One more thing for me, then?” She closed the fridge door and he swallowed hard.

“Of course.”

“Kiss me please, before you go, now that we’re both sober.”

Malcolm silently strode into the kitchen, stopping half a pace from Clara. She finished off the remaining space between them, putting her hand on his chest and staring up at him, waiting. He hesitantly bent down and, with his hands on her shoulders, kissed her gently. Pulling back slightly, he paused, wondering if it was satisfactory.

“Call me,” she smirked. “At least now you know I’ve got top visitor’s clearance.”

“Fuck… don’t tempt me.”

After a quick check of the corridors and the stairwell—both thankfully empty—Malcolm made his way out of Clara’s flat block and heading down the pavement towards the main road. There he picked up a taxi, one that thankfully had a privacy shield, which he requested be put up for a call.

Staring at the mobile in his hand, Malcolm considered his options. Should he call Clayton? The man was only his sobriety sponsor, after all, and he kind of just woke up with a (slight, mind,) hangover after shagging a woman he barely knew. His thumb hovered, only for a call to interrupt him—Clayton was going to have to wait.

“The fuck you want?” he hissed into the mobile. “It’s too fucking early for your knickers to already be in a twist.”

“ _The way I see it, they should’ve been untwisted ten fucking hours ago—I was trying to get a hold of you all fucking night_ ,” Jamie spat back. “ _The fuck you been, mate? We got a Channel Four, a Question Time special, and got to prep for the programs blitz to drop during the next two weeks! Yeh can’t just bunk off when our schedule’s that fucking full!_ ”

“Cool your fucking tits, James—shan’t kiss and tell now.”

“ _Yeh fucking codpiece—it’s ‘ **calm** your fucking tits’. Don’t tell me you’re losing your touch_.”

“Naw; can’t you play around with shit like that? Know the rules to break them?”

“ _You’re a fucking disaster. Might as well just serve us up now with neeps and tatties and a slop of mushy peas, hold the goddamned **Lauders**_.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too; I’m at least worth some Springbank.” Malcolm then paused, suddenly becoming conscious of something sitting in his coat’s breast pocket—something that crinkled. He cautiously pulled the object out and laughed inwardly, allowing himself a smile: it was an open bag of gummy bears folded in on itself, except the only color that was in there was orange.

“ _Malc? Yeh still there?_ ”

“Yeah…” He popped a gummy bear in his mouth and began gnawing the piece of candy into submission. “I just got distracted by the best bag of Gold Bears I’ve seen in a long time.”

“ _What? Only two fucking raspberry?_ ”

Malcolm grinned, glancing out the window. “Even better, mate.”


End file.
